


A Secret Chord

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Jewish Kingsman [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 2019 Kingsman Stocking Stuffer Challenge, Asexual Harry Hart, Chester King is an absolute shitstain of a human being, Domesticity, Everyone's Jewish, Expressions of Anti-Semitism, Family, Gen, Hanukkah, Harry Hart backstory, Harry has a lovely family and I want to write more about them, Jewish Character, Jewish Eggsy, Jewish Harry Hart, Jewish Identity, Jewish Merlin, Judaism, Merlin is a good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: A Five + One story about Jewish Harry Hart, who is utterly sick and tired of getting Christmas shoved down his throat.
Series: Jewish Kingsman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052108
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	A Secret Chord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solrosan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/gifts).



> Written for Solrosan for the 2019 Kingsman Stocking Stuffer challenge, for her prompt: _Someone (in my head it's Harry, but it can be anyone really) is Jewish and is just a bit... tired with all the Christmas_.
> 
> This is a companion piece to my Everyone's Jewish Kingsman fic, [Blessed Art Thou](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785079), which you don't have to read to enjoy this story. 
> 
> Title is from Leonard Cohen's classic, _Hallelujah_. 
> 
> On this last night of Chanukah, _chag sameach_ everyone!

**1 - 1984 - December - Kingsman Headquarters**

Harry Hart has been Galahad for exactly six months. He’s already saved the world once, although some might claim that preventing the assassination of Margaret Thatcher is the opposite of saving the world. Personally, he doesn’t care for the Iron Lady or her politics, but he’d been given an assignment and he’d done his job. The world kept on spinning and all he’d gotten was a limp handshake and a "good work, Galahad" from Arthur - a fat old man who hasn’t gone out on a mission since before the Yanks landed on the moon.

Arthur is - as Harry’s sponsor, Gawaine, says - a fossil so old he belongs in the British Museum. The first time Gawaine said that, Harry had thought it was the height of wit and keen observation, now, he sees it as the sad truth.

Just when he thinks the monthly Round Table meeting is about to draw to a close - it’s been going on for three and a half hours - Arthur says, "One more thing."

Harry just manages to stifle a groan, but Bors, sitting next to him, isn’t quite as diplomatic. "Jesus, Arthur, I’ve needed to take a shit for the last forty minutes. This better not take long."

Harry bites his lip in an attempt not to laugh. He kind of loves that Bors, a Kingsman veteran of two decades, doesn’t care how offensive he is. He’s always got some snide comment or crude aside. Not only is he smart and witty, he’s a fit and active field agent and a man that Harry would follow to the ends of the earth. When the time comes (which hopefully will be soon), he’ll be the first to nominate Bors as the new Arthur.

Arthur - the current one - glares at Bors and starts to drone on about the upcoming Christmas party, that if any of the agents need to have their formalwear tailored, they better make their appointments with the shop forthwith. The tailoring shop is a moneymaking venture and the paying customers have to come first. 

About half the the agents physically present get up, thinking that Arthur’s "one more thing" is done, but apparently it isn’t. They need to go through protocol for the party and the assignments for the upcoming month.

Arthur drones on and Harry is almost fast asleep when Arthur says, "Galahad, as our newest knight, you will have certain special responsibilities."

Barely conscious, Harry just nods and finally, _finally_ Arthur dismisses them. Bors makes a dash for the gents and Harry heads down to the kennel to retrieve Mr. Pickle. It occurs to him that he probably should have asked what those "special responsibilities" were. 

Pickle in tow, Harry heads for Gawaine’s office, but his sponsor isn’t in; he’s likely down at the local for a pint, a pub lunch, and a pipe. But Bors’ door is open and Harry taps on the woodwork. Bors doesn’t look up, just calls out for "whoever’s got the balls to bother him should just come in."

"Ah, Galahad, you didn’t get enough of my company at the Table this morning?"

"Sir?" Harry’s at a loss on how to answer.

"We’re equals, Galahad - all Kingsman knights. It’s only Arthur who you should call 'sir'. Remember that."

"Yes, si- ." Harry catches himself, "Yes, Bors."

Bors nods in approval. "Now, sit down and tell me what brings you here." 

Harry takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. "It’s about what Arthur said - that I’ve got 'special responsibilities' since I’m the newest member of the Kingsman. Do you know what those are?"

Bors leans down and gives Mr. Pickle a scratch under his chin and the little dog goes into transports of ecstasy at the attention. "How about a brandy?"

Harry isn’t particularly fond of the spirit, but he knows Bors is. "Yes, and thank you."

Bors goes through the ritual of pouring two bumpers and hands one to Harry with a touch of flair before sitting down across from him. "Ah yes, the 'special responsibilities'. I’d hoped Arthur would have forgotten about that garbage, but his breeding shows at the most inconvenient times."

Harry is confused. "Breeding? What do you mean by that?" As far as Harry can tell, Arthur is solid English gentry through and through, same as all of the other knights that Harry’s met. 

"Our great and fearless leader is the son of a minor bishop and had been intended for the Church. But Kingsman pulls from a vast and deep pool of candidates and someone must have seen something in him beyond the dog collar. Most of the time, Arthur keeps his clerical tendencies at bay, but come the holiday season, he reverts to type. And it’s gotten worse the older he gets." Bors frowns into his brandy.

Harry has a feeling he’s not going to like what Bors is about to tell him.

"Arthur loves his pomp and ceremony almost as much as a damn Papist, and uses Christmas to indulge that love. Unfortunately, it’s far more than a few carols and charity baskets for the locals. He expects his knights to show pious devotion throughout the season. And as the newest knight, it’s your task to make the Sunday sermons during Advent."

Harry’s gut freezes. "Sunday sermons? We’re expected to attend services?"

"De rigueur, my boy, for those of us who are not on assignment. We all troop down to the Kingsman chapel where we will make these displays of piety. I guess we should be grateful that Arthur doesn’t insist on weekly observances outside of Advent. And don’t worry about the services, it’s the usual Advent tripe - Death, Judgment, Heaven, Hell - the same ones you’ve probably heard all your life."

Now Harry is nauseous, the brandy he’d sipped is climbing back up his throat. Bors must have noticed because he asks, "What’s wrong? You have a fear of public speaking?" Bors’ tone is a touch unkind.

Harry nods. He can’t bring himself to lie, but his mother’s advice - and his father’s, for that matter - is hard to ignore. "Never one much for getting up in front of a crowd. And I was never particularly attentive at Chapel."

Bors smiles and nods. "Neither was I, but I, too, was once the newest knight at the table and had these 'special responsibilities'. I’m pretty certain I kept copies of my own Advent sermons, you can crib from them and make your life a little easier. Can’t do much about standing at the lectern and reading them, but …"

"Thank you, Bors." In Harry’s relief, he makes an offer he immediately regrets, "If there’s anything I can do to repay your kindness, please let me know."

Bors smiles. "A bottle of Grosperrin Tresor 1947. It’s a brandy I’ve always wanted to add to my collection"

Harry nods. Of course the help he’d been given doesn’t come without cost. He can imagine that the bottle he’ll need to procure for Bors will set him back considerably, but at least it’s just money, rather than a favor to be called in at an inconvenient time. He gets up and gives a gentle tug on Pickle’s leash. "Happy Christmas, and thank you again for your … assistance."

"My pleasure, Galahad."

As Harry leaves Bors’ office, the phone rings. It must be the civilian line, because Bors answers it, "Kingsman Tailors, Chester King speaking."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**2 - 1990 - Christmas - Kingsman Headquarters**

Someone hands Harry a cup of eggnog without even asking, and Harry isn’t so rude as to shove it back on the server. He hates eggnog - it’s vile and disgusting and the manifestation of everything that is wrong with the Christmas season. It’s excess in a glass. Liquified snot disguised as false cheer.

Now, if someone offered him some wassail, that’s a drink he could consume with relish.

"Good evening, Galahad."

Harry nods and smiles. "Arthur. Happy Christmas."

Arthur smiles back and rather viciously returns the greeting, "A very happy Christmas to you, too."

Harry doesn’t let the greeting affect him, after thirty years on this earth, including seven years at a prestigious public school, his skin is thick enough that even the most insincere of holiday greetings rolls off him like water off a duck’s ass.

But when Arthur adds, "Please give my Christmas greetings to your father - and of course your mother, too, when you see them," Harry’s vision turns a bit red. 

Arthur wanders away and Harry is a bit relieved, it wouldn’t do to punch his boss in his face at the company Christmas party.

"And what did our esteemed leader want with you?" Harry’s best friend and former Gawaine candidate, Ian Stewart, plucks the glass of nog out of Harry’s hand and replaces it with good Scotch whisky.

"Wished me a Happy Christmas - and asked me to pass on those regards to my mother."

Ian glares at Arthur’s back. "What a fucking twunt. I deeply regret that you had cast your vote for him."

"I regret it, too. At the time, I had no clue that Chester was such a bigoted arsehole." Harry sighs. "And I’m never going to stop regretting telling you that I’d cast the deciding vote." Harry had shared that information with Ian during the twenty-four hour period after the loyalty test. They’d gotten blazingly drunk and Harry had forgotten that he was an agent and Ian was still his candidate; it was like they were back in Cambridge and finals were over. Harry had overshared at bit - telling Ian about the vote for Arthur hadn’t been the only secret he’d divulged.

"Once again, I’m grateful not to have shot my dog, if only so I don’t have to deal with him on a daily basis. Working for the quartermaster keeps me out of his line sight most of the time, thank goodness."

Harry nods. Arthur had been quietly furious when Harry had proposed Ian for the open Gawaine position four years ago; there had been so many things that made his candidacy unacceptable to the man. He was Scots, he wasn’t of 'good birth' or at least from a moneyed family, and worst of all, Ian Stewart was Jewish.

He’d raked Harry over the coals for that, but there was nothing Arthur could do about Harry’s choice. There’s nothing in the Kingsman regulations about religion; the only thing that would disqualify a candidate is the lack of British citizenship. Harry had just stood there and listened to Arthur rage at him, not saying a single word, not even when Arthur had said, "Well, I guess the kikes will always stick together." 

Harry doesn’t want to think about Arthur and his anti-Semitism anymore. "I have your Hanukkah gift in my office."

"Another bag of shitty chocolate coins?" Ian asks with all sincerity.

"To go with the bottle of equally shitty whisky you give me every year." Since their first year at Cambridge, a decade ago, when they’d discovered their shared heritage, Harry has given - and has received - the exact same gift. It’s not the gifts, but the spirit in which they are exchanged that matters to Harry. They can both afford more elaborate presents, but Hanukah wouldn’t be Hanukah with the cheap chocolate and horrible whisky. Harry hopes they’ll both be alive to continue the tradition for many decades to come.

Tristan comes to drag Harry away. Galahad has to sit with the rest of the knights at the table at the head of the room, while Ian, a member of the quartermaster’s staff, is relegated to the hoi polloi. The only seat left is the one next to Arthur, and while Harry would prefer to be as far away from the man as possible tonight, Harry can certainly make himself as politely annoying as possible.

Arthur gives him a sour smile when Harry takes his seat, then purposefully turning to the agent on his other side. Lancelot is a decent fellow - Harry’s worked with him a few times - but he’s as much of a classist snob as Arthur, albeit without the overt antisemitism.

The first opportunity to jerk Arthur’s chain comes when the starter arrives - prawn cocktail. Arthur smirks and apologizes, "My deepest apologies, my dear Galahad, that the Kingsman kitchen didn’t get my request for a kosher meal for you."

Harry, who has not been brought up in a kosher household, just comments, "Nothing to worry about, I’m adaptable." He picks up a prawn by its tail, dips it in the sauce, and bites it in half. The farce continues when a waiter asks him if he’d prefer Lobster Thermidor or a bacon-wrapped filet mignon with herbed butter. Harry requests the filet and extra bacon, if possible. He does draw the line at the cream trifle served for dessert - not because of the dairy in it, but because he’s simply too full.

Arthur ignores him throughout the meal and Harry makes his escape just before the coffee and brandy are served. Ian is waiting for Harry in his quarters, holding a familiar box festively wrapped in blue and silver paper. 

"It’s still a few days early, but I’ve heard you’re heading out tomorrow."

Harry goes to his desk and locates the promised bag of terrible chocolate coins. "Here you go." He tosses it to Ian and retrieves two tumblers from the sideboard. "Shall we?"

"Get drunk on horrible whisky? You really don’t want to fly with a hangover." Ian holds to box out to him.

Harry takes it and sets it aside. "Been years since I’ve been been able to drink enough to get hung over. And I’m not drinking shitty booze on my last night home before a six-month undercover mission. This assignment calls for something a lot better than Piper’s Clan." Harry unlocks the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet and takes out the bottle of Macallen that Ian had given him for his birthday last year. 

He pours two generous measures and hands a glass to Ian. _"Chag Chanukah sameach._ "

Ian returns the greeting, _Chanukah sameach,_ Harry."

Harry smiles, sips his whisky and quietly feels the evening’s annoyances slip away.

Ian interrupts his navel-contemplation. "Have a question for you."

Harry doesn’t open his eyes. "Shoot."

"What do you really do with all the Piper’s Clan I’ve given you. Can’t imagine that you actually ever get desperate enough to drink something that tastes like old cheese with a gasoline finish."

Harry smiles. "Not a hundred percent sure what I’ll do with this year’s bottle, but last year’s has been decanted into the bottle of Remy Martin Louis XIII Very Old, France Grand Champagne cognac brandy that I've given to Arthur for Christmas. There’s a very talented gentleman in your division who’s a dab hand at creating extremely fine replicas of expensive bottles of spirits. I think it’s quite a fitting gift for our leader, don’t you?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**3 - London - Early December - 1997**

Harry still takes great delight in the fact that Ian’s now Merlin, essentially the second in command in the Kingsman hierarchy. He’s not only pleased for his best friend, but it really does give him immense satisfaction knowing how Arthur must hate that a Scot - and a Jew - controls the day-to-day operations of the organization.

Over the years, Arthur’s only gotten worse, his anti-Semitism and classist, racist attitude is actively harming Kingsman. Harry’s noticed how many special favors Arthur’s been doing, assignments that seem to further his own goals at the expense of the people that truly need Kingsman’s help.

Harry does have great hopes for the new Lancelot - his candidate, Lee Unwin, has just passed the loyalty test and they’ve watched as James, Tristan’s candidate, is prepared to die rather that reveal anything about Kingsman.

A few minutes later, Tristan brings James to the control room and Merlin tells these two remaining candidates that all further tests will be live-fire, but they now have twenty-four hours to spend with their mentors. In the bullet train, James and Lee chat about the night’s experience and Lee makes a crack about hiring James as his valet after he becomes Lancelot. James quips back that Lee will make a very good chauffeur. Harry catches Tristan’s eye and smiles; it’s nice to see two young men from such difference classes take the piss out of each other so easily.

Outside the shop, the part company; Tristan and James get into a Kingsman taxi, likely heading to Tristan’s flat in Bloomsbury. Harry ask Lee if he wants to walk.

"Sure, guv. Nice to be back in London, though." Lee shoves his hands in his pockets and grins. "Can’t believe it’s almost Christmas. Do you think I’ll have a bit of time to get my boy something for the holiday?"

Harry sighs. Lee’s family is always going to be a problem. Kingsman prefers that its knights have no ties to the civilian world, but Lee is the perfect candidate for Harry. Not only is does he tick all of the skills boxes, he’s not one of those upper class twits that Arthur distinctly prefers. Lee Unwin is a working-class Londoner and not ashamed of it. He’d thought that a career in the Royal Marines would be a ticket to upward mobility, but hadn’t hesitated when Harry had offered him a chance to become a gentleman spy. Harry had warned Lee that he’d have a hard time with the other candidates, likely all classist pricks, but Lee hadn’t seemed the least bit fazed by that and seemed to easily forge a friendship with Tristan’s candidate, James. 

"Harry?" Lee notices Harry’s abstraction.

"Perhaps we’ll have a bit of time to pop into the shops."

"Won’t take long, know just what my boy likes."

Out of politeness, Harry asks, "Oh?"

"Snow globes. He’s fascinated by them. Did my first deployment in Northern Italy and brought him back one with a ski chalet - he can stare at it for hours. Probably going to grow up and become a novelist or something."

Harry is warmed by Lee’s affection and pride in his son, but he still worries that his candidate won’t be able to make the hard choices when he’s faced with them. "I think there’s a nice toy store on the way to my house. We can stop there tomorrow."

"Thanks. And I know that my having a wife and kid freaks you out, but the way I look at it, I’m doing this to make the world a better place for them."

Harry just nods and they finish the short journey in comfortable silence. It’s not until they turn onto Stanhope Mews that Lee says anything. "Nice neighborhood, but not what I expected."

"No?"

"Thought you’d live in some sweet townhouse in Belgravia or Mayfair, something that screams generations of money and a title that goes back to the Doomsday book."

"My family does have a house in Belgravia, but I wouldn’t reside there."

"Too risky for your family?"

"Yes, but also, it’s not what I need. You’ll find, when you become Lancelot, that you’ll want your own space - a place to retreat after a mission, without the distraction and complications of family."

Lee shrugs. "Perhaps, or perhaps not."

Harry leads them to the house at the end of the block and unlocks the door. Mr. Pickle, thirteen years old but still as spry as a puppy, comes racing towards them, ready to defend hearth and home. At least until he sees Harry and launches himself at him like a tennis ball. Harry catches Pickle and gives him a bit of affection before turning back to Lee.

Who is staring at the doorframe. At the simple _mezuzah_ screwed into the wood.

Harry stifles a sigh. This may or may not be a problem. He puts Pickle down and gestures for Lee to come inside. "Mr. Unwin?"

"Of all the things I thought I’d possibly learn about you today, this - " He touches the thin, rectangular box affixed to the door frame, "was the last thing on my list. Actually, it never even made the list."

Harry works hard to keep his tone neutral. "And do you have an issue with that?"

"What?" Lee looks at him, brow furrowed, "Why would I have a problem with you being Jewish?"

"I don’t know why anyone has a problem with Jewish people, but six million of them were murdered for just their simple existence less than fifty years ago." Harry doesn’t want to go into the subtle antisemitism he’s experienced at Arthur’s hands. Now is not the time to share that.

"My wife and son are Jewish. Didn’t you know that?"

That information surprises Harry. "No, I didn’t. It’s probably in your background file, but that’s not something I’d be privy to once I’d put your name forward as a candidate."

"Ah."

Harry is at a loss on what to do with Lee - he had hoped his candidate would make it to this stage and has great expectations that Lee will meet the next challenge with the same set of steady nerves and intelligence, but had no plans with how to spend these twenty-four hours. So he takes Lee up to his office and explains the array of Sun covers on the wall before inviting him to take a seat.

Mr. Pickle follows them upstairs and decides that Lee Unwin is worthy of his affection. He jumps onto Lee’s lap and ignores Harry’s command to get down.

"Sweet dog, but didn’t figure you were the kind to go for little ones." Lee scratches Pickle under his chin.

"I picked him as my candidate dog," Harry says without considering the implications of that bit of information until it’s too late.

Lee smiles. "Bet he was the smallest dog in the batch."

"He was - and I’ve never regretted the selection." Harry offers to teach Lee how to make a proper martini and the next day, after making the promised stop at the toy store, he takes his candidate to the shop and has him measured for a suit.

Both Lee and James pass the dog test and a week later, they are shipped out to Iraq to track down an interrogate the leader of a terrorist cell; James’ sponsor, Tristan is on assignment in Singapore, so Merlin accompanies them. Harry misses the grenade and Lee Unwin conclusively proves that he could put his mission before his family and throws himself on the grenade to save everyone else’s lives.

For eleven months afterwards, alone and contrary to the law and custom of his people, Harry says the Mourner’s Kaddish for Lee, not out of a need to re-avow a believe in the eternal nature of the deity, but as a gesture of respect for Lee’s sacrifice and his family’s loss.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**4 - December - 2007 - Cornwall**

"Welcome home, Lord Henry." Lucius, the head butler, gives Harry a precise and formal bow. The man is old and probably should have retired two decades ago, but has a stubborn dignity that Harry can appreciate.

"Thank you, Lucius." Harry hands his coat and Rainmaker to the younger under-butler that shadows Lucius. A footman runs out to the car to retrieve Harry’s luggage "Is my mother home?"

"Yes, my lord. She and Lord Hart and the children are in the family parlor."

Harry thanks the man and heads deep into Tintagel, the seat of the Marquess Cardoc, currently the title held by Harry’s older brother, Stephen. The manor is a great, rambling structure, the first stones laid by some ancient Roman ancestor. It had partially burned down twice - the first time in some inter-family conflict during the War of the Roses and the second time by Parliamentarians at the start of the Civil War - which means that there’s little rhyme or reason to the architecture.

But Harry loves this crazy old house with all of its strangely shaped rooms, although he’s rather glad he’s not responsible for it - or the cost of the upkeep.

The family parlor is a large room at the back of the house, with a commanding view of the Celtic Sea. His mother, Miriam Rothschild Hart is holding her newest grandchild and cooing; his brother, Stephen is on his hands and knees, letting his older children use him as a climbing frame while his wife, Cecily, looks on with fond exasperation. It’s Cecily who notices Harry standing in the doorway.

"You made it!"

Harry smiles and goes to greet her. He genuinely adores his sister-in-law; she’s a warm and caring woman of fierce intelligence. Stephen’s decision to marry her was probably the smartest one he’d ever made. 

"Of course, my dear. Chanukah at Tintagel is not something to be missed."

She gives him a sharp look, "And yet, you’ve managed to not be here for at least five out of the nine years I’ve been married to your brother."

Harry sighs, "Not my choice - this is the busiest time of year and it’s difficult to get away."

Cecily knows when she’s being lied to and she also knows not to call Harry out on those lies. "Go give your mother a kiss and say hello to your namesake."

Harry does just that, kissing his mother’s soft cheek and poking a finger at baby Anghared, who grips it with remarkable strength. "I thought she was named for your grandfather, Harold."

Cicely shrugs, "She is, but she’s named for you, too." There’s a crash and Cicely rolls her eyes. "Children, your Uncle Harry is here. Climb on him and spare your father’s aging knees."

Ellonwy and Gwydion rush at him and Harry pretends to stagger back under their weight. Harry doesn’t see them too often - the life he leads doesn’t permit much family time - but he always tries to send them something from his travels. It may be foolish sentimentality, but Harry wants them to remember him as more than a distant stranger.

Stephen shoos away the children and wraps Harry into a tight bear hug, and Harry nearly puts his brother on the ground before he remembers that Stephen has always been an affectionate bastard.

Not realizing just how close he’d come to painful humiliation, Stephen pats Harry’s shoulders and arms. "Why does a tailor have so many muscles?"

"Because tailors do go to the gym and have personal trainers." Harry pokes at his brother’s belly, "Why does a marquess have a beer gut?"

Stephen pats his stomach and sucks it in for just a second. "Not a beer gut, just the sign of a prosperous landowner."

In the background, Cicely snorts and his mother sighs. "Your brother takes his role as lord of the manor very seriously. He’s been asked to judge the quality of ale at the new craft brewery in the village on a regular basis."

Stephen nods, "It’s a very important job."

"Is it any good?"

"Some are better than others, but if you’re going to be here for a few days, perhaps we’ll go down to Tremarin’s and sample a few varieties of winter ale." 

Ellonwy - or Ellie - tugs on his jacket. "Chag sameach, Uncle Harry. Did you bring baby Angie anything for Hanukah?"

Cicely picks up her daughter and gives her a small admonishment, "I’m sure that your uncle brought his newest - and his oldest - niece a gift, but are you truly asking for your sister, or for yourself?"

Ellie bites her lip and looks down for a moment. Then she looks up and grins. "I’m asking for Angie and Gwyn! Did you bring a present for my stinky brother?"

"Hey, not stinky. Well, not now." Gwyn defends himself. "Farted on you when we were playing with Da. Farted on Da, too."

Cicely rolls her eyes and says, "I think they’ve both had a bit too much chocolate gelt." Wish your grandma, da and uncle good night and it’s time for bed." She looks over at Miriam, "Would you mind watching Anghared while I put these monsters to bed, mama?"

His mother laughs. "Cicely, darling, do you really think I mind holding my granddaughter?"

Cicely rolls her eyes, "Forget I asked." 

There’s a moment of blessed silence as the children leave. Stephen looks at Harry and quirks an eyebrow. "Aren’t you glad you came for a visit?"

Harry heads towards the bar and pours himself a drink, then holds out the bottle towards his mother who nods, and he pours her two fingers of very excellent Scotch. Stephen can fend for himself. "I am delighted to be here, and in three days, I’ll be equally delighted to bid you farewell."

Miriam pats the empty space on the sofa, "Come sit down, darling. Why I had such tall sons, I don’t know."

Harry comments, almost irrelevantly, "Genetics?"

"The question was rhetorical, Harry." His mother could never resist the opportunity to have the last word. She coos at the baby, then asks, "So, did that _gonif_ of a boss give you a headache about taking time for the holiday?"

"Chester nearly split himself in two over my request. He wanted to say no because he finds the idea of any Kingsman employee celebrating a Jewish holiday repulsive, but since I was visiting my brother, the marquess, he nearly choked on his own tongue in his eagerness to tell me to pass on his regards to Your Lordship."

Stephen lets out a snort of laughter. "I guess he doesn’t know I’m Jewish, too - or rather, that I officially converted and was bar mitzvah’d before Cicely and I married."

Harry finds it delightfully ironic that his brother, who was supposed to be the bulwark of British noble values against the encroachment of a wealthy Jewish upstart, fell in love with a nice Jewish girl and became a practicing Jew. Harry, on the other hand, doesn’t have any strong religious beliefs and mostly identifies as Jewish at a cultural level. And to piss Chester off.

"You ever think about retiring, Harry? It’s not like you really need to work."

Harry shrugs and lies through his teeth. "Occasionally. It’s not that I don’t enjoy what I do." _I still get a kick out of saving the world a few times a year_.

"But?" His mother asks gently.

"But it would be nice to work for someone who respected me." Harry supposes that’s a complaint that almost everyone has. "I do occasionally think that I’d do a better job running the show, but that’s not in the cards."

Stephen, who has always been something of a hero to Harry, says, "If you want to buy the shop, I’ll be happy to give you the money. Or a loan, if your pride couldn’t withstand a gift. It’s Hanukah, after all."

Harry ducks his head and smiles. "You’re really too good to me, but no, thank you. I may have enough hubris to think I’d do a better job than Chester, but the truth is, I really don’t want the headache of running a business. I still do mostly international clients, so I stay out of Chester’s way. "

Stephen seems to understand. "Well, if you ever change your mind, all you have to do is ask. And if you want to retire and spend the rest of your life chasing butterflies, I’ll support you there, too."

Harry laughs. "Butterflies - haven’t thought about those in years." Once, in another life, Harry had dreamed of becoming a lepidopterist. He’d become a killer instead.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**5 - Early December, 2013, Kingsman Headquarters**

"Good work, everyone." Arthur gestures to his assistant to pass around snifters of brandy. "I think we all deserve a bit of a celebratory drink. A 1934 Napoleon, very fine vintage if I may say so myself." 

Harry takes a sniff of the contents and then a very tiny sip. He’d given Arthur that bottle of "1934 Napoleon" a few years back - which, of course, had been filled with the contents of the previous year’s Chanukah gift from Merlin. None of the men at the table would dare tell Arthur that his very expensive brandy is actually extremely cheap shite whisky, but it’s clear from his fellow knights’ faces that the aren’t relishing this "treat".

"And now for some administrative business - it’s that time of year, gentlemen, and Andrew has asked me to remind you that if you need to have any work done on wardrobe, to schedule your appointments as soon as possible. This is a very busy time of year for the tailors and while the shop will always support the agency, it is a moneymaking business and paying customers will take precedence.

Harry rolls his eyes - he’s heard this bit from Arthur every damn year. They all have. 

Arthur drones on about the Christmas party and Harry feels his patience coming to its limit. "Don’t forget to put in for a kosher meal for me, and for Merlin, too. And maybe this year, we can have the decorators include a menorah or two?" 

"And I supposed you’d like all of the knights to play that silly game with the spinning top?" Chester asks in a snide, almost angry - no, definitely angry - tone.

"No, not really. The _dreidel_ game really is for children - there’s no real religious significance to it." Harry pauses for a moment in pretend thought. "Although, come to think of it, there’s no real religious significance to Christmas crackers and plum pudding, either. And Christmas trees are a pagan import. So, perhaps we could indulge in a round or two of spinning. An acknowledgement that there are _other_ traditions represented at Kingsman."

Lancelot, who can always be depended on for inserting a bit of chaos into any Table meeting adds, "It’s actually a gambling game, as I’m sure Harry knows. So why not have a few rounds of high-stakes spinning. Donate the proceeds to some worthy charity, like the World Jewish Relief."

Before Chester can shut Lancelot down, Percival seconds the idea and Gawaine follows suit. Kay, ever the politician, moves that the motion be approved by a vote of all present, and for some reason that Harry can’t quite follow, every knight present votes for the motion. When its Arthur’s turn to cast his vote, he grudgingly says "aye", brings an end to the meeting, and stalks out of the room in high dudgeon.

Puzzled by his colleagues’ unexpected unanimous show of support, Harry stops Percival and Lancelot on the way out. "Thank you, but why?"

Lancelot shrugs and smiles. "You’ve stood up for us more times that we can count. Alistair and I thought it was time to return the favor. Kay’s sister-in-law is Jewish, and Gawaine - well, he just loathes Chester almost as much as you do. He was the one who rallied the rest of the gang to your cause. If Chester hadn’t been such an ass and mentioned the dreidel game, Gawaine was going to bring it up."

Harry nods tersely, not wanting to let the pair see how much their support means to him. "Thank you. I just get tired of having Christmas shoved down my throat like an oversized dildo."

"I thought you didn’t like sex, Harry," Percival says, dryly. 

"I don’t. But some men do like oversized dildos." Harry gets a bit of his own back and stares Percival down. Lancelot just sniggers and drags his partner away. 

The Christmas party is not just slightly less unbearable than usual, it’s actually enjoyable. Chester had been petty in the seating arrangements and put the agents who had shown Harry their support at a separate table inconveniently placed near the service door. Merlin joins them, and during the breaks between courses, they play several rounds of high-stakes dreidel spinning. At one point, Harry glances up to see Chester, at the dais table, glowering at them like some malignant Sellucid emperor, before turning away.

Harry has to wonder how much longer Chester’s going to be able to hold onto his power. The old guard that supports him unquestionably is getting old; Bedivere, Tristan, and Geraint are fast approaching mandatory retirement. The younger agents seem to have little sympathy for their leader’s ossified attitudes and Harry has heard a few of them say, more than once, that it’s past time that Chester retire.

Harry doesn’t think that Chester will ever voluntarily step down, but maybe he can be convinced to see the wisdom of such a choice. It’s just a matter of bringing the right kind of pressure to bear…

"Harry? You still with us?" Lancelot nudges him. "It’s your turn to ante up and spin."

He drops a few hundred quid onto the table and twists the little wooden dreidel, setting with whirling and wobbling. The top lands with _shin_ facing upwards and Harry pretends to groan when he adds another hundred quid to the pot. The money and the outcome is irrelevant, the only thing that matters right now is the sense of belonging he has so rarely felt amongst his fellow agents.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**+1 - Kingsman Headquarters, December, 2019**

Harry burns his fingers trying to light the _shammash_ candle with a match from some long-closed pub. He drops the match with a muttered "fuck" and sticks his thumb in his mouth.

Galahad snickers and comments, "Very dignified, Arthur."

Merlin rolls his eyes and hands Harry a box of safety matches with the Kingsman logo on the top. "Unless you’d rather use a Kingsman lighter."

"You, too, can be dispensed with," Harry says. But he takes the match box and lights the _shammash_ easily, murmuring the traditional prayer. 

He hands the _shammash_ to Eggsy, who lights the candle signifying the first night. Eggsy carefully passes the _shammash_ to Merlin, who lights the second candle. Merlin hands the _shammash_ to Sebastian, a fellow Scotsman and Jew, who lights the third candle. The _shammash_ goes to other Jewish members of Kingsman and then back to Harry, who nearly burns himself again fitting the candle back into the menorah.

Merlin and Eggsy bid Harry a good evening and take off, as to the rest of the participants. Harry remains behind to watch the candles burn down. It’ll take about a half-hour, just long enough for him to have a quick call with his family in Cornwall. He’d gone down last week, for the first two nights of the holiday, but he wants to talk with his mother again. She’s getting frail and Harry wants to make the most of the time they have left.

He’s nearly died too many times since becoming a Kingsman, but this last one had left him shaken. Since returning from Kentucky, he’s made it a point of spending more time with his family, getting to really know his nieces and nephew (and he thinks young Angharad might make a fine Kingsman agent one day, and not because she’s another Harry Hart).

Harry dials Stephen’s cell phone and smiles when Harry answers, screaming _chag sameach_ at him before his brother takes it from her and gives him a more civilized greeting.

The heating system clicks on, sending a warm rush of air through the room and the menorah candles gutter but don’t go out. Harry’s conversation with his brother is perfectly banal, he’s concerned about beach erosion and how rising sea levels are affecting. Harry certainly can’t tell his brother that Kingsman has made environmental stability part of its mission, but he can listen and offer some input. Stephen jokes that Harry’s awfully up-to-date on the subject for a tailor, and Harry snarks back that tailors can read more than pattern pieces and fabric catalogs. 

Stephen gives the phone to his mother and Harry listens carefully as she tells him about her day. There’s nothing of great import in her words, but Harry hears the too-swift passing of him in her voice. It’s missing the astringent snap of his mother’s sharp mind, but it’s still beloved.

Soon enough, Harry bids his mother goodnight and promises to call next week. The _shammash_ burns down first and the rest of the candles soon follow, leaving the air tinged with the sweet-acrid scent of smoldering wicks and candle wax.

Harry takes the menorah to his office, he’ll clean it up and put it away until next year’s holiday. It’ll be a new year and a new decade in a few days, one that likely will be more chaotic that the one that’s just about to end. 

And of course, Kingsman will be doing its very best to keep the world safe for everyone.

_Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, shehekheyanu, v’kiyamanu vehegianu lazman hazeh._

_Blessed art Thou, O Lord Our God, Ruler of the Universe, Who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season._

_FIN_


End file.
